


I Believe

by whatthehellamidoingwithmylife



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Depression, Post-Reichenbach, Self-Harm, Suicide, ignoring season 3, sorry it's pretty heavy stuff, wrote this ages ago
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-05
Updated: 2014-10-05
Packaged: 2018-02-20 00:53:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 867
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2409140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whatthehellamidoingwithmylife/pseuds/whatthehellamidoingwithmylife
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lestrade is struggling more than anyone knows after the events of Reichenbach.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Believe

**Author's Note:**

> WARNING: this story contains self-harm and suicide. DO NOT read if this will trigger you.
> 
> I wrote this ages ago (in the big season 2-season 3) hiatus, and I found it and thought I would post it.

Sometimes, when he was investigating, he thought he saw Him. It was only ever a brief glimpse. The back of a head, a blue scarf, the bottom of a coat whipping round a corner. Of course he knew it was impossible. Sherlock Holmes was dead, and no amount of wishing would bring Him back.

His hand was shaking and sweaty; he was in danger of dropping the knife. But he couldn’t. He had something he needed to do first. Willing his heart to slow and his hand to still, he brought the knife slowly to his wrist, and drew a single line.

_I._

His boss was saying he was a liability. His team were worried about him. He could see the nervous glances, the whispered conversations that stopped as soon as he came within earshot. Cases always seemed to wrap up too neatly, almost as if someone was helping from behind the scenes. Once he suggested that it could be Him, and their uneasy looks only served to assure him of their thoughts. They thought he was going mad. Maybe he was. It was only a matter of time until he lost his job. He welcomed the change. He would be away, finally, from the constant reminders. His office was a living hell, full of memories: where He had sat, what He had said, the crimes He had solved.

No. This was dangerous territory. He couldn’t afford to stray down memory lane, couldn’t afford to get distracted. A few more cuts, a few more letters. It stung, and he welcomed the pain. Anything was better than what he was feeling now.

_Believe._

It was his fault. He had listened to Donavan’s accusations, actually listened to them, and for the first time in so many years, felt a flicker of doubt about Sherlock Holmes. _Doubt._ He should have known what He would do. He had seen Sherlock through some of the worst parts of His life, through the pain and the withdrawal and the nightmares, and he still barely knew Him. Did Sherlock have any idea how much he cared? Had Sherlock ever cared for him in return? Now he would never know.

It was getting harder to concentrate. He felt weak, and everything was blurry. A couple more slashes. A couple more letters.

_In._

He barely talked to John anymore. It was too painful, and he couldn’t look the other man in the eyes. Couldn’t bear to see the inevitable blame there. _It’s your fault,_ the eyes would say, _it’s your fault He’s dead._

Anyway, it had been four months. John was finally starting to heal. He was finally starting to fill the hole in his life. He had a new job at a different practice, and a new girlfriend, Mary, was it? Yes, Mary Morstan, that was it. He couldn’t be the one to rip that apart, and burden John with the weight of his guilt and grief. He couldn’t risk sending him into another spiral of depression, like the one he had only just escaped from. No. Better to do this alone.

The next word was the hardest, and the tears that sprang to his eyes were not from the pain of the knife.

_Sherlock._

He was so much more than anyone had realised. So kind. So clever. So vulnerable. So _human_. His mind was incredible and it would have been so easy for Him to lock Himself in a lab, spend all his time there, never having to talk to another person ever again. But He didn’t. He forced Himself to go outside. To interact with people. To help people. This man, this great man, this _good_ man, who everyone had said was incapable of feeling, had the most heart of them all. 

The tears were falling freely now. He had to keep going. Had to make sure everyone knew. This was his legacy. Just one more word, then it was all over.

_Holmes._

He sat back, and admired his masterpiece engraved upon his arm. His work was done. He could finally be free  
.  
His eyes travelled to the gun lying half hidden in shadow on the table before him. He reached for it, and shakily put it to his temple. Not long now. He started to count down. 5. He screwed his eyes shut. 4. How would they react, he wondered, when they found him? 3. He hoped John would be okay. 2. Almost over. 1. An image of Sherlock flew into his head, and he smiled. Soon they would meet again. Shake hands in Heaven. 0. He squeezed the trigger. 

In a cold, lonely flat in London, a shot rang out. Birds were startled from their nests in a flutter of wings, but for the next few moments silence fell, as much as silence can fall in such a city. It was, however, inevitably broken by the sound of sirens closing in on the area. Mere minutes later and the door had been smashed, police swarming into the cramped living space. _Too late._ All that remained of the silver-haired detective was a pool of blood soaking into the carpet and a body sprawled across the floor, five words carved into its arm.


End file.
